


The Midnight Clear

by killabeez



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Author's Favorite, Community: hlh_shortcuts, Future Fic, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the quiet war comes at last, MacLeod is the first soldier taken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Midnight Clear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hafital](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hafital/gifts).



> Thank you so much to Destina for the beta! (And Gryphonrhi for the bunny.)

  
**The Midnight Clear**  
_for hafital_  


_Somewhere in the Green Mountain National Forest..._

"This is entirely your fault. You do realize that, don't you?"

MacLeod made no response, which Methos took as license to elaborate. "Always playing the hero. If you didn't insist on making yourself a target—" He broke off, catching MacLeod before he could stumble down the rocky bank. "Hey. Stay with me, okay? Come on, just a little farther."

Despite Methos's deliberate attempt at provocation, MacLeod was struggling. The weeks of neglect and abuse heaped on him by his captors were taking their toll, and four hours of flight on foot through the darkness and nearly-freezing rain had exhausted what little reserves he had. 

Methos grimaced. _A little farther_ was optimistic to say the least, considering they were well past plan B and onto plan D at this point, miles of mountain and forest between them and salvation, and dawn still hours away. They'd crossed three forest roads since making their escape, but Methos hadn't dared risk them. Instead, he was doing his best to follow the muddy bank of a creek that ran along the base of the mountain, partly because it was sheltered from the worst of the wind, and partly because it was the surest way to guarantee they didn't double back on themselves.

He laid a hand on MacLeod's face, checking his friend's responses as best he could in the dark. The rain had covered their trail, for which Methos was grateful, but MacLeod was soaked through, and Methos wasn't much better. They needed to find shelter, and soon. MacLeod was cold to the touch, his pulse sluggish. An Immortal wouldn't die of shock, but MacLeod would only make it so far before combined shock and hypothermia outpaced his body's ability to keep functioning.

Methos gripped MacLeod's arms, letting him rest against the relative warmth of Methos's body. As rescues went, this wasn't one of his finest.

"We can make it," he said, trying to get MacLeod to focus. "They won't follow us tonight. Amanda will come."

Amanda's name rallied him, as Methos had hoped it would. "Didn't think you had so much faith in her," MacLeod managed.

"When it comes to you, all the faith in the world." Methos squeezed MacLeod's arms. "Now, come on. If I have to carry you, I'll never let you hear the end of it."

* * *

The problem, Methos had long known, was that MacLeod had no sense when it came to the people he cared about. It didn't matter that the man had finally wised up and reduced his visibility. If you wanted to make MacLeod dance, all you had to do was dangle Joe Dawson, or Amanda, or any one of his dozens of friends over a snake pit, and MacLeod would jig to any tune you played. If a Neanderthal like O'Rourke could figure that out, anyone could.

The Watchers, who knew everything there was to know about Duncan MacLeod, certainly could.

Long ago, when the world was different, the Watchers had protected the secret of Immortality. They'd been useful for that, among other things. Give men a secret society, a higher purpose tied up with their egos and the sacred preservation of mysterious knowledge, and they might prove very useful indeed. Methos had used that to his advantage whenever the opportunity presented itself, but he'd also seen the writing on the wall. The main reason he'd volunteered to help Don with his digital archive project was to know which way to run when the whole thing began to fall apart.

He hadn't counted on his own blind spot: a dark-eyed Scot who'd walked in to his flat one spring day and brought the color back into the world.

* * *

"Temperature's dropping," MacLeod said, the first words he'd volunteered in a while. A glance back showed him gamely keeping pace, and not for the first time, Methos was glad he was as stubborn as he was thick-skulled.

"Look on the bright side," he offered. "The snow will cover our tracks."

MacLeod grunted. "If we don't freeze to death first."

"Exactly."

MacLeod didn't reply at first, and Methos thought he'd exhausted his limited strength. But a moment later, he said, "No one I'd rather suffer hypothermia with."

It warmed Methos despite his shivering. "Thank you," he said. "I can't tell you how much that means to me."

Perhaps a hundred metres further on, MacLeod halted. "Methos."

"What is it?" He turned back, half-expecting to have to catch MacLeod as he fell.

MacLeod, swaying slightly, pointed at a break in the thick brush. It was little more than a deer track, a narrow path heading straight uphill from the creek. When Methos looked more closely, he saw the scarred marks on the saplings where someone had cut them back. Methos noticed only then that they'd reached a spot where the creek widened and stood above a wide rock shelf that would have made a nice fishing spot in better weather.

One glance at MacLeod, and Methos turned up the man-made path without further hesitation. 

Those last few hundred metres seemed a far steeper and longer journey than they probably were. Sleet needled against Methos's face as they broke into an overgrown clearing, and he could feel the pull of MacLeod's grip fisted in his coat.

An old hunting cabin stood before them, no light at the windows, no other sign of occupants. Methos grasped MacLeod's shoulder in a wordless expression of relief. Then he hustled them both up the single step to the door.

* * *

It wasn't noticeably warmer inside, and the distinct scent of mice reached Methos's nose, but at least it was dry. He pulled out his LED and cast its glow around the interior. Judging from the spiders and the thin layer of dust, the cabin's owner had last visited some months ago.

"It's not the honeymoon suite," he said, "but I've slept in worse places."

"Really?"

"Only the best for you, darling."

An old cot stood against the back wall. A small hole torn in the corner of the mattress showed that the mice had been raiding the mattress for batting, but on quick inspection, Methos didn't think they'd been living in it. Thank heaven for small mercies. He set his light on the table and turned back for MacLeod, who stood swaying in the doorway.

Methos guided him to the cot and helped him sit. MacLeod was shivering and trying not to show it, but that was a good sign. It meant his systems were still functioning. Methos handed over his water bottle and shed his jacket, then sat down close beside MacLeod and draped the jacket around both their shoulders to capture their combined body heat.

"Methos, this is so sudden."

"No, it isn't. Now drink up. You need fluids."

"So do you."

"Oh, for—This isn't a discussion. Trust me, okay?"

MacLeod did as he was told, which revealed all Methos needed to know about how close he was to the end of his reserves.

Nothing had gone Methos's way since he'd first slipped over the fence into the Watcher compound. He'd gone in believing he knew what he was getting into, and the scope, ambition, and technical sophistication of the place had been an unpleasant wake up call. They were both lucky to be alive. If they did make it out of the country with their skins intact, their lives would have to change—maybe even their faces. Methos spared a fleeting thought for regret, more attached to MacLeod's Caledonian mug than he'd admit.

Of course, in the old days, he'd have been long gone by now. Things were so much simpler when he only cared about saving his own skin.

"Better?" he asked, when he felt MacLeod relax a little against his side. After nearly a fortnight of captivity and deprivation, MacLeod didn't exactly smell like lilacs. Methos didn't mind, his senses on high alert, his body focused on Mac's as it always was. In the twenty years he'd known MacLeod, they'd never been this physically intimate with one another. This was about survival, but he couldn't entirely ignore the tension their closeness generated in the near-darkness.

MacLeod nodded. "I'll live."

Methos cleared his throat. "Stay put," he said, and shrugged out from under the wet jacket, tucking it closer around MacLeod's shoulders with a pat. "I'm gonna take a look around, see what we can do for heat."

* * *

The cabin offered no propane or electrical, but that was for the best—it meant they were likely some distance from any public road. The fireplace had been swept, and a perfunctory check of the flue satisfied him.

Outside, the rain had turned to ice mixed with snow, and it came down thick and heavy, blotting out the shapes of the trees. Tomorrow, that could be a problem, but tonight Methos was glad. He could build a fire with some hope that neither the smoke nor the heat signature would give them away. On a night in which everything that could go wrong had done exactly that, Methos would take it.

The porch kept the stacked firewood well protected and mostly dry. Giving thanks to the cabin's owner, Methos loaded his arms as quickly as possible and hurried back inside.

He got a fire going, then found two pots and a couple of metal bowls and set them outside to catch the icy mix of precipitation. They'd have to boil it before they could safely drink it, but fluids would help MacLeod's natural healing abilities repair the abuse he'd suffered, and they'd both need to replenish their strength before morning. Methos shut the door against the wind and returned to feed the fire, sparing a glance for his companion in the flickering light. MacLeod still looked thoroughly wet and miserable huddled under Methos's jacket, his eyelids drooping, but even so, a warm, undeniable feeling of gladness tightened in Methos's chest. He'd survived worse odds, with poorer company. 

Satisfied with the fire, Methos built and lit a second in the wood stove, then rummaged around the single room and turned up a wooden trunk that held a couple of moth-eaten army blankets. They were musty, but a great deal better than nothing. He hung them over a chair by the fire. Then he sat down on the trunk lid and went through his bag, taking stock. "Well, the good news is we won't starve to death—not tonight, at least." He tossed a protein bar at MacLeod, who tore the package open and took a bite, then visibly forced himself to chew as if the effort exhausted him.

Methos fought down a momentary surge of anger at the men who'd taken MacLeod prisoner. Taking a hostage of war was one thing, but the way they'd treated him, as something subhuman, turned his stomach. Methos had seen it before, but that didn't make it any less ugly.

"They won't stop," MacLeod said, as if reading Methos's thought. "Not until they've wiped us off the face of the earth."

"Others have tried."

"This is bigger than Horton," MacLeod countered. "Bigger than Shapiro. The Watchers sold us out."

"Someone did," Methos agreed. "The question is, to whom?"

"Does it matter? You saw that place. Whoever it is, they mean to dissect us and use us any way they can."

Methos knew MacLeod was thinking of the people who would die in this ugly, furtive war. The writing had been on the wall since the day Christine Salzer had walked into a newspaper office in Paris, but Mac was right: this was bigger than the Watchers. The security on that place had been government issue, or Methos would sell his Apple stock.

He said, "This isn't the first time this has happened, you know. The Watchers have been around for almost four thousand years. Did you really think Horton was the first?"

MacLeod shook his head. "It's different this time. Technology's changed."

Methos met his gaze, but said nothing. There was nothing he could say. MacLeod knew as well as he did what it was to be hunted.

MacLeod leaned his elbows on his knees and rubbed at his face. Methos remembered the naked courage with which MacLeod had gone to face Kalas, prepared to die if it meant keeping the secret of Immortality from the world. O'Rourke had finally taught him what Methos had been trying to tell him for years. He'd tried to step out of the Game, but here he was back in the thick of it, like always. That was who he was.

"I'm worried about Joe," MacLeod said. 

Methos crumpled up his wrapper and threw it in the fire, watching it curl and burn. "Yeah, me too."

They fell quiet for a minute. Then MacLeod said, "How far is it to the rendezvous?"

"Twelve miles, give or take."

"There'll be at least a foot of snow out there by morning. We'll be easy to track."

"It's either that or wait out the storm, and I don't know about you, but I'm not fond of the idea." He shot MacLeod a wry glance. "The phrase 'sitting ducks' comes to mind."

MacLeod was watching him, his face drawn and short hair rumpled, but his eyes brighter now from the food and warmth.

"You shouldn't have come for me."

"Oh, don't start."

"I'm serious. I'd rather you and Amanda were safe. You know that."

"Yes, well, we all want things we can't have." Methos got to his feet and began looking through the cabinets again with no real reason to do so. Before he'd broken into MacLeod's cell and dragged him out of there, he hadn't seen the man in almost a year. Methos had been feeling the pull for a while when he'd gotten Amanda's call.

He hadn't even considered the idea of leaving MacLeod to his fate—well, not for more than a second or two, at least. MacLeod should know better.

"Methos."

Methos let out an exasperated sigh. "What would _you_ have done?" MacLeod didn't answer—he didn't have to. At least he had the grace to look chastised. It mollified Methos slightly. "You said it yourself. We didn't choose this. Would I rather be anywhere else right now? Yes. But there are some things I'm not willing to sacrifice. So shut up and—and get over here."

Amusement quirked MacLeod's lips. 

"What?" Methos demanded.

"You're cute when you're irritated."

Methos glared at him. 

"It's true."

Methos turned his back, making a show of prodding the fire and adding more wood. "Fine. You coming or what?"

Obedient, MacLeod dragged the worn mattress in front of the fire. Methos spread one of the blankets over it, pointedly ignoring him. Then he went to get the pans he'd left outside. 

It was snowing now, thick white flakes that gathered in clumps and drifted on the front porch. Methos listened intently, but heard nothing, sensed no danger. None outside the racing of his own heart, at least. After all this time, indeed. MacLeod still got under his skin without even trying.

He went back inside. The chimney was sluggish, but working, the smoke bearable. The cabin still wasn't what he would call warm, but it was infinitely preferable to spending the night outdoors. He put the pans on the hot stove and turned to MacLeod, who had already curled up on the mattress beside the fire, Methos's jacket bunched up for a pillow.

"Shove over," Methos said, nudging him with his boot. At MacLeod's raised eyebrow, he gave a warning look. "Not a suggestion."

"Aye, your majesty. I live to serve." MacLeod shifted over closer to the fire.

Methos got his boots off and lay down in the narrow space at MacLeod's back, spreading the second blanket over them both. "What's the matter? Never been the little spoon before?"

"Can't say that I have," came MacLeod's rumble.

"Well, first time for everything." Methos pressed closer, bringing his knees up behind Duncan's. If they were going to share body heat, he intended to make it count.

MacLeod made no further protest. It was only awkward for a moment before the warmth between their bodies and simple exhaustion overcame MacLeod, and he relaxed against Methos. Methos nudged his socked feet between MacLeod's, folded his arms against his chest and nestled in against the other man's broad back with a suppressed shiver of relief. They fit together easily, as if they'd done this a hundred times. As if they'd do it a hundred more. For some reason, that struck closer to Methos's heart than all the rest. Their future wasn't certain, but for the moment they had this much: warmth and companionship and a friend to trust their backs to in the night. It was more than Methos had known for most of his long life. He closed his eyes.

"Methos?"

"What?"

"Thank you."

Methos sighed and opened his eyes. "I mean it. Don't start."

MacLeod snorted. "Amanda's right. You are an old grouch."

"An old grouch who's busy saving your skin. As usual."

"My point exactly." MacLeod fell silent then, and Methos thought maybe they could get some rest without treading on yet more dangerous ground. But after a minute or so, MacLeod asked, "Hey, what day is it?"

"Thursday. Why?"

MacLeod let out a soft laugh.

"It's Christmas," he said.

"And me with no mistletoe." It was out before Methos could think better of it, meant as a joke, but the flush of warmth in his cheeks damned him for a fool. He rushed ahead, covering. "I'd kill a bull for you, but I seem to be fresh out." At MacLeod's chuckle, Methos frowned. "Something funny?"

"I've seen the frescos," MacLeod said dryly. "Or was it you they worshipped?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Spoilsport."

"I try."

MacLeod reached back without a word and caught Methos's hand, drawing his arm around MacLeod's waist. "Merry Christmas, old man."

Methos grunted. He should have made some crack about greeting card sentiments, but words had begun to seem like too much effort. He'd have to get up in a while and take the pots off the stove, but he was finally warm for the first time that day. MacLeod was alive, which was more than he'd hoped for yesterday. For the moment, they were safe and dry.

Methos closed his eyes and listened to the crackling of the fire. He might have drifted off for a moment, but Mac's voice pulled him back from the brink of sleep.

"So, why d'you do it? You ever gonna tell me that?"

"Do what?"

"You know what."

 _Ah._ The question Methos had stopped asking himself long ago. "I did tell you."

"When?"

"Years ago. Not my fault you weren't listening."

There was a pause. Then Mac said, "Maybe I was listening. Maybe I didn't know whether to believe you."

"Can't imagine why that would be."

MacLeod tugged him closer, as if it were an answer. Methos didn't protest.

"I do now," MacLeod said after a moment, the words a low rumble against Methos's chest. "Believe you."

Methos huffed a breath. "Go to sleep," he said, but MacLeod was already there.

* * *

Methos woke before dawn. The fire had died out, the last embers smoking. Methos slid out from beneath the blanket and scattered the ashes, then closed the flue. Then he slipped outside to piss.

The forest rose gray and still around their little clearing, the snow pristine. A bobcat sat at the edge of the woods and watched him for long moments, fearless, before vanishing into the woods. Methos stepped behind the cabin, his footsteps crunching. He had to will down an erection, and pointedly ignored thinking about the cause.

When he was finished, he slipped back inside and shook MacLeod awake. "Time to go," he said. In minutes, they were on the move. 

Methos hadn't lied when he said Amanda would come, but hours after moonrise that night, the sight of a four-seater plane on the frozen lake below made him send up a silent promise: he swore he'd get the little minx out of at least the next five or six scrapes she got herself into. He even meant it. 

As they crossed the ice, two figures emerged from the plane. One ran toward them, a dark, slim figure, hood thrown back and platinum hair shining in the moonlight.

Amanda threw herself at MacLeod and held on tight. "I thought we'd lost you." When she hugged Methos, she looked at him as if he'd turned water into wine. "We didn't think you were coming."

"But you waited anyway." He exchanged a look with MacLeod. "Told you she'd be here."

"He did," MacLeod said, bemused. Amanda's companion stepped forward, and MacLeod offered his hand. "Wolfe," MacLeod said. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"I feel like I should be the one thanking you," Amanda said to Methos, looking between him and MacLeod as if they were the best Christmas present she could have hoped for.

Methos gave her a tired smile. "You're welcome."

"I owe you one," she said. "I won't forget."

"You can start by taking us somewhere far away from here. Preferably someplace warm."

"How does Belize sound?"

Methos thought of Amanda in a bikini and sarong. Of MacLeod bared to the waist; of warm nights, blue water, and skin browned by the sun. 

"It'll do."

"Then let's blow this popsicle stand, what do you say?"

She started for the plane, but MacLeod stopped her. "Amanda, wait. What about Joe?"

"Safe," said Wolfe. "He'll meet us in Montreal."

MacLeod's relief was palpable, and Methos knew the feeling. Whatever came next for them, nothing would ever be the same, but he was more grateful than he'd admit that none of them would face it alone.

Methos felt exhaustion sweep over him in a wave as he swung himself up and settled into the worn leather seat. Mac climbed into the back after him while Wolfe got in front, with Amanda at the controls.

As they accelerated across the snowy lake, Methos watched the dark tree line blur, then fall away as the plane lifted. He turned to look at MacLeod, who had laid his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. Methos thought maybe he was asleep, but after a moment, his hand found Methos's knee. Methos slipped his fingers between Duncan's, let out a long breath, and squeezed.

_fin_


End file.
